by Julia Quinn
“Oh dear,” she said, her voice squeaking slightly. “Nigel, are you all right? I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”
Simon laughed. He couldn’t help it.
The girl looked up, startled.
Simon caught his breath. She had been in shadows until now, and all he’d been able to discern of her appearance was a wealth of thick, dark hair. But now, as she lifted her head to face him, he saw that she had large, equally dark eyes, and the widest, lushest mouth he’d ever seen. Her heart-shaped face wasn’t beautiful by society standards, but something about her quite simply sucked the breath from his body.
Her brows, thick but delicately winged, drew together. “Who,” she asked, not sounding at all pleased to see him, “are you?”
Chapter 3
It has been whispered to This Author that Nigel Berbrooke was seen at Moreton’s Jewelry Shop purchasing a diamond solitaire ring. Can a new Mrs. Berbrooke be very far behind?
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 28 April 1813
The night, Daphne decided, couldn’t possibly get much worse. First she’d been forced to spend the evening in the darkest corner of the ballroom (which wasn’t such an easy task, since Lady Danbury clearly appreciated both the aesthetic and illuminating qualities of candles), then she’d managed to trip over Philipa Featherington’s foot as she tried to make her escape, which had led Philipa, never the quietest girl in the room, to squeal, “Daphne Bridgerton! Are you hurt?” Which must have captured Nigel’s attention, for his head had snapped up like a startled bird, and he’d immediately started hurrying across the ballroom. Daphne had hoped, no prayed that she could outrun him and make it to the ladies’ retiring room before he caught up with her, but no, Nigel had cornered her in the hall and started wailing out his love for her.
It was all embarrassing enough, but now it appeared this man—this shockingly handsome and almost disturbingly poised stranger—had witnessed the entire thing. And worse, he was laughing!
Daphne glared at him as he chuckled at her expense. She’d never seen him before, so he had to be new to London. Her mother had made certain that Daphne had been introduced to, or at least been made aware of, all eligible gentlemen. Of course, this man could be married and therefore not on Violet’s list of potential victims, but Daphne instinctively knew that he could not have been long in London without all the world whispering about it.
His face was quite simply perfection. It took only a moment to realize that he put all of Michelangelo’s statues to shame. His eyes were oddly intense—so blue they practically glowed. His hair was thick and dark, and he was tall—as tall as her brothers, which was a rare thing.
This was a man, Daphne thought wryly, who could quite possibly steal the gaggle of twittering young ladies away from the Bridgerton men for good.
Why that annoyed her so much, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because she knew a man like him would never be interested in a woman like her. Maybe it was because she felt like the veriest frump sitting there on the floor in his splendid presence. Maybe it was simply because he was standing there laughing as if she were some sort of circus amusement.
But whatever the case, an uncharacteristic peevishness rose within her, and her brows drew together as she asked, “Who are you?”
Simon didn’t know why he didn’t answer her question in a straightforward manner, but some devil within caused him to reply, “My intention had been to be your rescuer, but you clearly had no need of my services.”
“Oh,” the girl said, sounding slightly mollified. She clamped her lips together, twisting them slightly as she considered his words. “Well, thank you, then, I suppose. Pity you didn’t reveal yourself ten seconds earlier. I’d rather not have had to hit him.”
Simon looked down at the man on the ground. A bruise was already darkening on his chin, and he was moaning, “Laffy, oh Laffy. I love you, Laffy.”
“You’re Laffy, I presume?” Simon murmured, sliding his gaze up to her face. Really, she was quite an attractive little thing, and from this angle the bodice of her gown seemed almost decadently low.
She scowled at him, clearly not appreciating his attempt at subtle humor—and also clearly not realizing that his heavy-lidded gaze had rested on portions of her anatomy that were not her face. “What are we to do with him?” she asked.
“‘We?’” Simon echoed.
Her scowl deepened. “You did say you aspired to be my rescuer, didn’t you?”
“So I did.” Simon planted his hands on his hips and assessed the situation. “Shall I drag him out into the street?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “For goodness’ sake, isn’t it still raining outside?”
“My dear Miss Laffy,” Simon said, not particularly concerned about the condescending tone of his voice, “don’t you think your concern is slightly misplaced? This man tried to attack you.”
“He didn’t try to attack me,” she replied. “He just . . . He just . . . Oh, very well, he tried to attack me. But he would never have done me any real harm.”
Simon raised a brow. Truly, women were the most contrary creatures. “And you can be sure of that?”
He watched as she carefully chose her words. “Nigel isn’t capable of malice,” she said slowly. “All he is guilty of is misjudgment.”
“You’re a more generous soul than I, then,” Simon said quietly.
The girl let out another sigh, a soft, breathy sound that Simon somehow felt across his entire body. “Nigel’s not a bad person,” she said with quiet dignity. “It’s just that he isn’t always terribly bright, and perhaps he mistook kindness on my part for something more.”
Simon felt a strange sort of admiration for this girl. Most women of his acquaintance would have been in hysterics at this point, but she—whoever she was—had taken the situation firmly in hand, and was now displaying a generosity of spirit that was astounding. That she could even think to defend this Nigel person was quite beyond him.
She rose to her feet, dusting her hands off on the sage green silk of her skirts. Her hair had been styled so that one thick lock fell over her shoulder, curling seductively at the top of her breast. Simon knew he should be listening to her—she was prattling on about something, as women were wont to do—but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off that single dark lock of hair. It fell like a silky ribbon across her swanlike neck, and Simon had the most appalling urge to close the distance between them and trace the line of her hair with his lips.
He’d never dallied with an innocent before, but all the world had already painted him a rake. What could be the harm? It wasn’t as if he were going to ravish her. Just a kiss. Just one little kiss.
It was tempting, so deliciously, maddeningly tempting.
“Sir! Sir!”
With great reluctance, he dragged his eyes up to her face. Which was, of course, delightful in and of itself, but it was difficult to picture her seduction when she was scowling at him.
“Were you listening to me?”
“Of course,” he lied.
“You weren’t.”
“No,” he admitted.
A sound came from the back of her throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “Then why,” she ground out, “did you say you were?”
He shrugged. “I thought it was what you wanted to hear.”
Simon watched with fascinated interest as she took a deep breath and muttered something to herself. He couldn’t hear her words, but he doubted any of them could be construed as complimentary. Finally, her voice almost comically even, she said, “If you don’t wish to aid me, I’d prefer it if you would just leave.”
Simon decided it was time to stop acting like such a boor, so he said, “My apologies. Of course I’ll help you.”
She exhaled, and then looked back to Nigel, who was still lying on the floor, moaning incoherently. Simon looked down, too, and for several seconds they just stood there, staring at the unconscious man, until the girl said, “I really didn’t hit him very hard.”
“Maybe he’s drunk.”
She looked dubious. “Do you think? I smelled spirits on his breath, but I’ve never seen him drunk before.”
Simon had nothing to add to that line of thought, so he just asked, “Well, what do you want to do?”
“I suppose we could just leave him here,” she said, the expression in her dark eyes hesitant.
Simon thought that was an excellent idea, but it was obvious she wanted the idiot cared for in a more tender manner. And heaven help him, but he felt the strangest compulsion to make her happy. “Here is what we’re going to do,” he said crisply, glad that his tone belied any of the odd tenderness he was feeling. “I am going to summon my carriage—”
“Oh, good,” she interrupted. “I really didn’t want to leave him here. It seemed rather cruel.”
Simon thought it seemed rather generous considering the big oaf had nearly attacked her, but he kept that opinion to himself and instead continued on with his plan. “You will wait in the library while I’m gone.”
“In the library? But—”
“In the library,” he repeated firmly. “With the door shut. Do you really want to be discovered with Nigel’s body should anyone happen to wander down this hallway?”
“His body? Good gracious, sir, you needn’t make it sound as if he were dead.”
“As I was saying,” he continued, ignoring her comment completely, “you will remain in the library. When I return, we will relocate Nigel here to my carriage.”
“And how will we do that?”
He gave her a disarmingly lopsided grin. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”
For a moment Daphne forgot to breathe. Just when she’d decided that her would-be rescuer was irredeemingly arrogant, he had to go and smile at her like that. It was one of those boyish grins, the kind that melted female hearts within a ten-mile radius.
And, much to Daphne’s dismay, it was awfully hard to remain thoroughly irritated with a man under the influence of such a smile. After growing up with four brothers, all of whom had seemed to know how to charm ladies from birth, Daphne had thought she was immune.
But apparently not. Her chest was tingling, her stomach was turning cartwheels, and her knees felt like melted butter.
“Nigel,” she muttered, desperately trying to force her attention away from the nameless man standing across from her, “I must see to Nigel.” She crouched down and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. “Nigel? Nigel? You have to wake up now, Nigel.”
“Daphne,” Nigel moaned. “Oh, Daphne.”
The dark-haired stranger’s head snapped around. “Daphne? Did he say Daphne?”
She drew back, unnerved by his direct question and the rather intense look in his eyes. “Yes.”
“Your name is Daphne?”
Now she was beginning to wonder if he was an idiot. “Yes.”
He groaned. “Not Daphne Bridgerton.”
Her face slid into a puzzled frown. “The very one.”
Simon staggered back a step. He suddenly felt physically ill, as his brain finally processed the fact that she had thick, chestnut hair. The famous Bridgerton hair. Not to mention the Bridgerton nose, and cheekbones, and—Bugger it all, this was Anthony’s sister!
Bloody hell.
There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.
While he stood there, probably staring at her like a complete idiot, she planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “And who are you?”
“Simon Basset,” he muttered.
“The duke?” she squeaked.
He nodded grimly.
“Oh, dear.”
Simon watched with growing horror as the blood drained from her face. “Good God, woman, you’re not going to swoon, are you?” He couldn’t imagine why she would, but Anthony—her brother, he reminded himself—had spent half the afternoon warning him about the effects of a young, unmarried duke on the young, unmarried female population. Anthony had specifically singled out Daphne as the exception to the rule, but still, she looked deucedly pale. “Are you?” he demanded, when she said nothing. “Going to swoon?”
She looked offended that he’d even considered the notion. “Of course not!”
“Good.”
“It’s just that—”
“What?” Simon asked suspiciously.
“Well,” she said with a rather dainty shrug of her shoulders, “I’ve been warned about you.”
This was really too much. “By whom?” he demanded.
She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. “By everyone.”
“That, my d—” He felt something suspiciously like a stammer coming on, and so he took a deep breath to steady his tongue. He’d become a master at this kind of control. All she would see was a man who looked as if he were trying to keep his temper in check. And considering the direction of their conversation, that image could not seem terribly far-fetched.
“My dear Miss Bridgerton,” Simon said, starting anew in a more even and controlled tone, “I find that difficult to believe.”
She shrugged again, and he had the most irritating sensation that she was enjoying his distress. “Believe what you will,” she said blithely, “but it was in the paper today.”
“What?”
“In Whistledown,” she replied, as if that explained anything.
“Whistle-which?”
Daphne stared at him blankly for a moment until she remembered that he was newly returned to London. “Oh, you must not know about it,” she said softly, a wicked little smile crossing her lips. “Fancy that.”
The duke took a step forward, his stance positively menacing. “Miss Bridgerton, I feel I should warn you that I am within an inch of strangling the information out of you.”
“It’s a gossip sheet,” she said, hastily backing up a step. “That’s all. It’s rather silly, actually, but everyone reads it.”
He said nothing, just arched one arrogant brow.
Daphne quickly added, “There was a report of your return in Monday’s edition.”
“And what”—his eyes narrowed dangerously—“precisely”—now they turned to ice—“did it say?”
“Not very much, ah, precisely,” Daphne hedged. She tried to back up a step, but her heels were already pressing against the wall. Any further and she’d be up on her tiptoes. The duke looked beyond furious, and she was beginning to think that she should try for a quick escape and just leave him here with Nigel. The two were perfect for each other—madmen, the both of them!
“Miss Bridgerton.” There was a wealth of warning in his voice.
Daphne decided to take pity on him since, after all, he was new to town and hadn’t had time to adjust to the new world according to Whistledown. She supposed she couldn’t really blame him for being so upset that he’d been written about in the paper. It had been rather startling for Daphne the first time as well, and she’d at least had the warning of a month’s previous Whistledown columns. By the time Lady Whistledown got around to writing about Daphne, it had been almost anticlimactic.
“You needn’t upset yourself over it,” Daphne said, attempting to lend a little compassion to her voice but probably not succeeding. “She merely wrote that you were a terrible rake, a fact which I’m sure you won’t deny, since I have long since learned that men positively yearn to be considered rakes.”
She paused and gave him the opportunity to prove her wrong and deny it. He didn’t.
She continued, “And then my mother, whose acquaintance I gather you must have made at some point or another before you left to travel the world, confirmed it all.”
“Did she?”
Daphne nodded. “She then forbade me ever to be seen in your company.”
“Really?” he drawled.
Something about the tone of his voice—and the way his eyes seemed to have grown almost smoky as they focused on her face—made her extremely uneasy, and it was a
ll she could do not to shut her eyes.
She refused—absolutely refused—to let him see how he’d affected her.
His lips curved into a slow smile. “Let me make certain I have this correctly. Your mother told you I am a very bad man and that you are under no circumstances to be seen with me.”
Confused, she nodded.
“Then what,” he asked, pausing for dramatic effect, “do you think your mother would say about this little scenario?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, unless you count Nigel here”—he waved his hand toward the unconscious man on the floor—“no one has actually seen you in my presence. And yet . . .” He let his words trail off, having far too much fun watching the play of emotions on her face to do anything but drag this moment out to its lengthiest extreme.
Of course most of the emotions on her face were varying shades of irritation and dismay, but that made the moment all the sweeter.
“And yet?” she ground out.
He leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them to only a few inches. “And yet,” he said softly, knowing that she’d feel his breath on her face, “here we are, completely alone.”
“Except for Nigel,” she retorted.
Simon spared the man on the floor the briefest of glances before returning his wolfish gaze to Miss Bridgerton. “I’m not terribly concerned about Nigel,” he murmured. “Are you?”
Simon watched as she looked down at Nigel in dismay. It had to be clear to her that her spurned suitor wasn’t going to save her should Simon decide to make an amorous advance. Not that he would, of course. After all, this was Anthony’s younger sister. He might have to remind himself of this at frequent intervals, but it wasn’t a fact that was likely to slip his mind on a permanent basis.
Simon knew that it was past time to end this little game. Not that he thought she would report the interlude to Anthony; somehow he knew that she would prefer to keep this to herself, stewing over it in privately righteous fury, and, dare he hope it—just a touch of excitement?
But even as he knew it was time to stop this flirtation and get back to the business of hauling Daphne’s idiotic suitor out of the building, he couldn’t resist one last comment. Maybe it was the way her lips pursed when she was annoyed. Or maybe it was the way they parted when she was shocked. All he knew was that he was helpless against his own devilish nature when it came to this girl.